


Confusing These Days

by technicallyataurus



Series: how big, how blue, how beautiful [1]
Category: Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy (TV 1981)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Aliens, Angst, Breakfast, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Drug Abuse, Drug Use, First Meeting, Fluff, Hangover, Jealousy, M/M, Mentions of Sex, Pining, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slow Burn, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, arthur can surprisingly cook, arthur's a nervous wreck, brief mention of prostitution?, first fic, ford really likes to drink, i'm not great at tagging sorry, no beta we die like men, these boys...are dumb
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2019-07-12 22:46:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16004864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/technicallyataurus/pseuds/technicallyataurus
Summary: Ford doesn't understand the Earthers' view of alcohol. Arthur is concerned.in short, Ford Prefect and Arthur Dent's first meeting, and their adventures from there on out. Enjoy! title from David Bowie's "Hallo Spaceboy."





	1. But On the Way I Wonder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ford doesn't have a place to stay. Arthur wants to help. Chapter title from Cat Stevens' "On The Road To Find Out".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This is my first fic on AO3, so sorry if I mess something up. I might make this part of a larger story or just a collection of drabbles. Let me know how you like it! And potential trigger warnings for alcoholism and very very briefly referenced prostitution. This is not meant to be taken very seriously. Enjoy!

As far as nights out went, this one had not been one that Ford Prefect had particularly enjoyed.

He had been on Earth for somewhere around ten years now and had learned a great deal about the little green-blue planet which he now found himself growing somewhat fond of. He learned its history, he learned about its bloodiest wars and most inspiring figures. He learned about the plants and animals, and the strange hunks of machinery called ‘cars’ (and in doing so figured out why he received so many strange looks after introducing himself). But nothing on the planet intrigued or confused him as much as its human inhabitants.

Ford often found himself puzzled at their rigid rules and customs--their bizarre, closed-off attitudes about sex, their aversion to physical contact with strangers, their insistence on only bedding members of the opposite sex. But what confounded him the most was the humans’ obsession with digital watches, and why they allowed these sorry pieces of primitive technology to tell them how and when to live their lives, and most importantly, what was a suitable time to begin drinking.

On his home planet of Betelgeuse V (which had oddly never quite felt like home), there was no issue taken with drinking whenever one may please. Ford Prefect personally preferred to have a nice glass of the Ol’ Janx Spirit with his meal upon waking, a few Giynan Tonycks around the middle of his day, and several Pan-Galactic Gargle Blasters later before passing out and beginning the process anew.

Those habits on Earth, however, were considered dangerous and appalling. Nevermind the fact that Pan-Galactic Gargle Blasters did not exist on Earth, when once a girl he had been sleeping with at the time caught him nursing a glass of gin at nine am Earth time, she had attempted to refer him to a group called Alcoholics Anonymous, claiming they could help him with his addiction. After having her explain what alcoholism was, he told her proudly (and slightly drunkenly) that yes, he absolutely was an alcoholic, but he sure as hell wasn’t anonymous about it.

He hadn’t seen her again after that.

Ford wasn’t sure what humans found so repulsive about drinking in the morning, but for the sake of blending in Ford attempted to withhold his drinking until after five pm.

This was why he was in a small pub in a small village in the English countryside, downing a glass of tequila as if it were a shot. His head pounded--not drinking in the mornings left him with a terrible headache all day, making him cranky and irritable until he could get his hands on some good liquor. This headache, however, had not gone away, even after downing a large amount of alcohol. He groaned and let his forehead rest against the crook of his elbow, which was propped up on the bar.

Dimly aware of the world around him, Ford could hear someone settle into the seat beside him and order “two pints of bitter.” Ford wondered for a brief moment if he could convince the person--who was likely a man, judging by the low pitch of his voice--to buy Ford a drink as well, but decided it was not likely, since the man’s first impression of Ford would be the seemingly comatose man suddenly lifting his head to reveal a pale, tired face split into what Ford had been told was a “horrible, terrifying, manic grin that would startle the bravest man on Earth.” (This did not particularly hurt Ford’s feelings, as he found most Earthmen to be cowards anyway.) Still, Ford was not one to back down from a bit of a challenge, and snapped his head up, wincing for a moment and forgetting to grin, now focused on the spinning barman. He was about to reach out to him and ask him if he was alright and if so, would he please stop spinning like that, it was making Ford ill, when a hand landed on Ford’s shoulder, startling him into a hiccup.

“Excuse me, sir, sorry, but are you alright?” said that voice, the deep one of the man who had sat down next to him. “You don’t look very well.” He had a thick, posh London accent that Ford thought was rather elegant and pretty.

‘Elegant and pretty’, however, did not quite describe the man when Ford finally turned his gaze on him. He was somewhat handsome, yes, but not pretty. Ford suspected that the man looked older than he was--his face was mostly wrinkle-free (excepting the stress lines on his forehead) and smooth, but he had a very small smattering of barely-there acne scars on his right cheek and chin, under his five-o-clock shadow. His dark eyes were a touch dull and the bags under them made him look at least thirty-five Earth years old, though Ford suspected he was likely under thirty. As the man’s dark brows furrowed worriedly, Ford realized he should probably stop staring at the man’s face and should say something.

“Hello!” Ford said brightly, focusing on keeping the drunken slur out of his speech as best he could. He gave one of his friendliest grins (still terrifying) and stuck his hand out. Ford Prefect. And you?”

The man blinked a couple of times before shaking Ford’s hand. His hand was much larger than Ford’s, less bony and delicate and more sweaty. “Er, well. I’ve got an Anglia myself.” The man’s dull eyes glanced around nervously. “My name’s Arthur. Uhm, Dent. Arthur Dent. What’s yours?”

Ford realized the man had misunderstood. His grin widened in what he hoped was a polite, reassuring way. “Like I said. Ford Prefect. Are you from around here?”

The man blinked rapidly. He looked very nervous. Ford tried to force the muscles in his cheeks to cooperate and produce a delightfully reassuring smile. “Er…” said Arthur. Ford dropped the smile. Arthur visibly relaxed. “Uh, I moved here not too long ago. From London. Needed a reprieve, er, from, uhm--I’m sorry, are you sure you’re alright?”

Ford realized he had gone cross-eyed. He refocused his eyes with some difficulty. “Whassat?” He slurred, too focused on keeping his vision in order to concentrate on articulation.

“My God,” said the man (Arthur!!!!! Ford reminded himself), “You’re blackout drunk!”

Ford grinned in a manic fashion. “Thas’ the way I like it!” He exclaimed, trying for a dramatic flourish of his hands and instead succeeding in shifting his already questionable balance so that he slipped off the barstool and toward the floor.

Arthur caught him by the shoulders and righted him again. “Where do you live? I can drive you there.”

“Well, nowhere at the mo’.”

Arthur blinked rapidly again at Ford. “You--you’re serious, aren’t you? You don’t have a place to stay?”

Ford attempted to shake his head and winced at the pain in his temples and the churning of his stomach. “Nope! Just got to this town, you see. I’m an out-of-work actor."

Something incredible happened to Arthur’s face. It lit up briefly in a flash of understanding, his dull eyes brightening slightly, darkened drastically in a realization, and then fell into an expression of passive reluctance. He seemed to argue with himself in his head for a moment, then heaved a worried sigh. “Well,” he said, chewing on the inside of his cheek (something fluttered in Ford’s chest at that, or was he just about to throw up?), “I suppose you could stay at my house. Just for tonight. Maybe we could find you a better place to stay tomorrow.”  
Ford did something he rarely did. He blinked.

“Oh,” he said lamely, after some consideration. When Arthur fidgeted uncomfortably, Ford decided he needed to say something else and began consideration again. His drunken brain decided that the absolute best thing to say at that moment was “Oh,” so he said it again. Arthur looked no less worried.

“That is, only if you want to,” said Arthur awkwardly.

“I assume this is in exchange for sexual intercourse?” Ford said carefully, eyes narrowing slightly.

Arthur, who had taken a pull of the beer he had ordered when he first arrived, choked. “I beg your pardon?” he sputtered.

Ford shrugged (it was more like a small spasm). “Well, why would you just offer your home to a stranger who is homeless and, as you say, blackout drunk?”

It was Arthur’s turn to shrug. “Well, uhm, my therapist says I worry too much about all the bad in the world because I don’t see enough of the good. S-so he says I should try to--to do more good. So.” He took a long pull of beer. “Do you want a place to stay tonight? Free of charge.”

Ford stared at Arthur, who flushed but held his gaze almost defiantly. After a moment of staring, Ford broke into one of his trademark grins.

“Sure thing, Earthman.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave kudos or a comment if you liked it or if you have some critiques! I apologize for any grammar errors, I typed this up at midnight while Hurricane Florence was raging outside my house lol. Hope you enjoyed! :)


	2. Seeing it Very Plain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waking up in someone else's home was not alien to Ford. Waking up on someone else's couch, however, was.
> 
> basically, the morning after. Enjoy! title from Fleetwood Mac's "Morning Rain".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been a while! I actually wrote a second chapter about a week ago and even published it, but I hated it and deleted it immediately. I like this one much better--it was much easier to write. I'm planning on doing a continuation of this, but it might take a while since right now I'm basically just writing when I have inspiration. also, bold of me to assume Arthur can cook.
> 
> Happy Holidays to you all, and enjoy!!! (p.s. comments and kudos are the best Christmas present I could ask for!!! ;))

Ford awoke to the rich smell of Earth coffee and the sizzling sound of something cooking in a pan. This was unusual-- the last time he had awoken to that was over five years ago when he was having a short fling with a New York City chef (what was his name? Craig? Andy? Jim?). Ford had not opened his eyes yet but could tell it was morning time by how bright the room seemed from behind his eyelids. He rolled over in bed with a small groan, gripping at the small blanket that covered him.

He was somewhat astonished when he tumbled to the floor.

His eyes were open now, but it didn't do much good as the blanket had engulfed his head. He wrestled with it for a moment before it was ripped away. He let out a triumphant grunt as he closed his eyes against the sudden influx of light.

"Head hurt," he said to himself, whining softly.

"There's aspirin on the side table," said a vaguely familiar voice, "by the lamp."

Ford's eyes opened again (his head did not appreciate it) and he squinted up to see the man from last night (Arthur! his brain supplied uncharacteristically confidently) standing over him, holding a mug of coffee and a spatula.

"Arthur," Ford found himself saying, "I wasn't expecting you."

Arthur blinked at him. "No?" he asked. There was a strange tone to his voice that Ford did not recognize. "Who were you expecting, Bigfoot? The Queen?"

Ford was confused. "You mean Bigfoot is the Queen of England? When did that happen?"

To Ford's surprise, Arthur laughed. "Clever," he said, "very clever." This confused Ford further, but Arthur swept on. "Did you sleep well?" He questioned, scratching his stomach. Ford realized Arthur was wearing only boxers, a tank top, and a ridiculous quilted nightgown.

Ford shrugged. "I slept fine, thank you." He glanced over his shoulder and realized he had not been sleeping on a bed at all, but a sofa. Odd. He began to sit up, but gave in about halfway through and lay back down. "You?"

Arthur blushed, very faintly, as he said, "Fine as well." Ford was going to comment on the blush when Arthur said, "Do you like eggs?"

"What kind?" asked Ford. He really was not fond of Altairian mega-goose eggs and avoided them at all costs.

"...Scrambled?" said Arthur. It didn't quite answer Ford's question, but he shrugged it off and assumed they must not have any Altairian foods on Earth.

"Sure," he said, making another failed attempt at sitting up. "D'you think you could help me up?" he asked.

"Oh!" Arthur exclaimed, looking about and setting his coffee and spatula on the little table beside the sofa. "Here," he said, reaching a hand out to Ford.

Ford took it gratefully, noticing how much larger Arthur's hands were than his own with muted glee, and with Arthur's assistance, heaved himself up. He stumbled slightly and Arthur caught him with a steady hand on Ford's shoulder, drawing him a little closer to his chest. Ford patted Arthur's chest with his free hand. "Thanks," Ford said distractedly. "What's the spatula for?"

"What?" Arthur asked, shaking his head. "Oh," he let go of Ford and reached over to pick up his coffee and spatula again. "I was making eggs." He gasped comically. "The eggs!" Arthur groaned, rushing into the kitchen.

Ford stood in place for a moment, thinking. Standing still and thinking was something he very rarely did, and he found he did not enjoy it much. Still, he felt he needed a moment to compose his thoughts. He was feeling very strange, outside of his normal hangover strange. He could not, however, figure out why he was feeling so strange. This peculiar feeling was something he had never experienced. He wondered what brought it on--the alcohol? The lack of food? Sleeping on the sofa? None of those seemed quite right, but all this thinking stuff was making his head hurt, so Ford resolved to ignore the feeling and take the aspirin Arthur had left out for him.

There was, Ford discovered, a glass of water thoughtfully set out next to the aspirin. As he swallowed the medicine, he imagined Arthur setting the pill and water out the night before. Ford must have already been asleep--he very vaguely recalled passing out in the passenger's seat of Arthur's Ford Anglia--so Arthur must have had to carry Ford in and rest him on the sofa. He must have taken Ford's tweed blazer off (it was hanging now on the coat hanger), along with his tie (Ford shuddered uncharacteristically at the thought of Arthur's large hands loosening his tie, brushing against the nape of his neck), and covered him with a blanket. He then would have had the care and foresight to set out the water and aspirin. The strange feeling Ford was having intensified, so he quit thinking about it and opted to stumble toward the kitchen.

"I hope you like your eggs well done," said Arthur when he noticed Ford standing at the kitchen doorway.

"As long as they aren't Altairian," Ford commented, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips. Arthur scooped some eggs onto two plates and picked them up, approaching Ford. "Could you please grab some silverware and bring it to the table?" Asked Arthur. Ford noticed that he really was quite a bit shorter than Arthur. "They're in the drawer to the left of the stove."

Ford nodded as Arthur squeezed past him and took off toward the breakfast table. Ford joined him there with appropriate silverware after a moment.

"You want coffee?" Arthur asked, setting his on the table by what Ford assumed was his plate.

"Yes, please. I can get it," said Ford, taking off back toward the kitchen. "Where are your mugs?"

"Cabinet above the coffee maker."

Ford poured himself some coffee and was delighted to find the sugar and creamer next to the coffee pot. He poured a considerable amount in and added creamer until the once black coffee had gone a pale, milky color. When he set his mug down on the table, Arthur boggled at it.

"How sweet did you make that?" he asked incredulously as Ford took a sip.

"Very," said Ford simply. "Regular Earth coffee is far too bitter."

Arthur gave him a strange look. "Regular Earth..." he trailed off when Ford raised an eyebrow. "... perhaps you'd prefer tea?"

Ford wrinkled his nose. "No, tea's vile as well. It's just bitter leaf juice."

Arthur looked as if Ford had insulted his mother. "So you can drink hard liquor straight without so much as a wince, but coffee and tea are too bitter?"

Ford shrugged and took another sip. "You have to appreciate the finer things in life, Earthman." He set his coffee down. "Thanks for breakfast," he said before tearing into his (admittedly overdone) eggs.

"Earthman?" Arthur said, seeming very off-kilter.

Ford shrugged. "You are, aren't you?" He said between bites.

Arthur nodded slowly, staring at his eggs. He then looked at Ford warily. "Aren't you as well?"

Ford nearly blinked. He swallowed his eggs somewhat nervously. "Do you think I am?" he asked, keeping his voice carefully even.

Arthur was quiet for a moment, staring at Ford. "...Yes," he said, "I do."

Ford grinned at him and shrugged. "Then I am," he said finally, and resumed wolfing down his eggs.

Arthur stared at him worriedly before laughing nervously. "Good," he said, more to himself than Ford. "Good." He picked up his fork and began to eat.

He choked on his food when Ford told him flippantly, "You know, you've got very nice hands for an Earthman."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's not very long! Comments and kudos are much appreciated! Happy Holidays everyone!!! :) (also please let me know if there are any spelling errors or anything, I don't have a beta reader lol)


	3. You Never Look Like Yourself from the Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finding Ford an apartment and other shenanigans. Title from "Crying Lightning" by the Arctic Monkeys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think these chapter titles are really exposing my taste in music lol. The hardest part of writing this story is sticking to a lighter, funnier tone while also getting across my point and keeping a slow burn present. Towards the middle of this more of my typical style pokes through, but I liked the section too much to cut it. If you're wondering about the English muffin part, go listen to Punky's Dilemma by Simon and Garfunkel. I'm not making it up. Enjoy!!! oh also DON'T DRINK AND DRIVE KIDS hehe

“Is this some sort of hippie thing you do?”

Ford had always been rather careful about blending in on Earth (except in New York City. There, Ford could behave about as strangely as he wanted and no one would have been the wiser as to his unearthly origins), but he discovered that teasing at it with Arthur was rather, well, thrilling. Hinting at it, dancing about the edge without quite falling off gave Ford a strange pleasure, excited him—it wouldn’t be a stretch at all to say it turned him on. Plus, the face Arthur made—the furrowed brows, the pouted lips, the way he tilted his head—when Ford called him Earthman made Ford want nothing more than to grip the taller man’s face and snog the sense out of him.

Okay, so Ford was admittedly attracted to the tall, strange Earthman who had taken him in for the night. Ford couldn’t rationalize the attraction—it seemed much stronger than his typical hey-you’re-nice-looking-wanna-bang? attractions, but he couldn’t understand why. He couldn’t see himself using his usual flirtation tactics (get smashingly drunk, proposition someone in a bar then spend the night getting plowed into a mattress, carpet, or, on occasion, bathroom stall door) on Arthur; he wasn’t quite sure how to approach the man, honestly. Ford had a very strange feeling about Arthur, like he would really like to stick around with him for more than a couple weeks, perhaps for the foreseeable future. It was a feeling that made his hearts leap in his chest and his stomach flutter oddly. The last time he had felt something like that—he didn’t like to think about it—was back in the early days of the Guide, when he had still had dreams for his future, an idea of what he wanted from life and love and whatnot. He hadn’t thought about his future for a long time. Not until Arthur.

“Ford?” Ford was snapped out of his reflections by Arthur, who sounded concerned. They were both sitting on Arthur’s little sofa, Arthur drinking tea and Ford drinking gin disguised as tea. They had finished their breakfast about an hour ago and had been watching the telly since. “Did you hear what I asked, Ford?”

Ford shook himself mentally. “Yes,” he said, “I certainly heard it. Whether or not my brain processed and remembered it is an entirely different question.” Arthur stared blankly at him, not comprehending. Ford sighed minutely. “What did you ask?”

Arthur took a steadying breath. “I said,” he shifted away from Ford slightly, “is calling me Earthman some sort of hippie thing you never grew out of?”

“Sure,” Ford lied smoothly, “if you like.” Before Arthur could begin to panic over that vague answer, Ford moved closer to him and asked with an excited grin, “What do you want to do?”

“Do?” said Arthur. “What do you mean?”

Ford shrugged, scooting imperceptibly closer to Arthur. “I mean, we could go out somewhere! Do something! Go get food, or-or shop, or—say, what is there to do around here anyway?”

Arthur blinked at him. “Well,” he said, “that’s about it. Food and shopping.” He perked up suddenly. “Oh! We could go try and find you a place to stay? I've got a friend who's a realtor, she could help us--erm, you--find a place.”

Ford nodded. “Sure, if you’re up for it. Then drinks, maybe?” He asked hopefully.

Arthur gave a friendly smile (Ford felt his breath hitch in his throat, enraptured) and nodded. “Sure. Just give me a moment to get dressed.”

Arthur re-emerged moments later dressed in tight-fitting brown slacks and a white button down, deftly winding a tie about his neck. Ford felt a slight shiver as Arthur looked him up and down strangely.

"Is something wrong?" Ford asked, raising an eyebrow.

Arthur's eyes snapped back up to Ford's face. "No!" he said quickly, "It's just... how are your clothes not wrinkled?"

Ford glanced down at himself. "Wrinkleproof fabric," he said, "for travel." It was a lie, of course--it wasn't the fabric itself that was wrinkleproof, it was what Ford treated it with. It was something he'd picked up on in the Eastern arm of the galaxy, some easy-to-make elemental mixture that made it impossible to wrinkle your clothes. The only issue was that it smelled very strongly of vanilla, which was not a bad thing in itself, but on Earth, where even scents were aggressively gendered, it was not the "ideal" male scent.

Arthur nodded slowly. "Hm. I'll have to get myself some." He stared at Ford for a moment longer before coughing abruptly and reaching to snatch Ford's jacket and tie off of the coathanger. "Here you are," he said, handing them to Ford as he approached the coatrack, feeling his hair to gauge how wild it had gotten the night before.

They left moments later, windows down in Arthur's Ford Anglia, cruising down the English country roads, serenaded by Simon and Garfunkel's album 'Bookends', Arthur whistling along.

"So," he said, fingers tapping the steering wheel along to the beat of 'Fakin It', "What kind of place are you looking for?"

Ford shrugged. "Dunno," he said, "Are there any apartments around here? Somewhere to rent?"

Arthur glanced over at him. "Rent?" he questioned. "Don't you want somewhere to live permanently?"

Ford let 'Fakin It' fade out and 'Punky's Dilemma' begin before he answered. "I tend to move around a lot." He noticed something akin to human disappointment flash across Arthur's features. "I never stay in one place very long. Why," he said, changing the topic abruptly, "does he want to be an English muffin?"

Arthur gawked for a moment before catching on. "Oh," he said, "the singer? Well, uhm, I guess because he wants... to get put in a toaster? I don't know, they're nonsense lyrics."

"No lyrics are nonsense, Arthur," Ford said seriously. "All lyrics mean something to their writer. Otherwise, they wouldn't write them."

Arthur laughed. "You obviously haven't heard some of The Beatles' music, then, I suppose."

"Oh, I've certainly listened to The Beatles," Ford said, "Plenty of times. Even if some of their lyrics are strange, they have sense. Perhaps not to you or me, but to them." They sat for a bit, simply enjoying the music. "Of course, I've always preferred Elvis myself."

Arthur glanced over. "Oh? What's your favorite song of his?"

Ford looked at him. "'Love Me Tender'," he said with a wink and vicious grin.

To his surprise, Arthur laughed heartily. "That's a good one, sure," he said, then jumped suddenly as the first chords of 'Mrs. Robinson' began. "Oh!" he shouted, turning the sound up. He seemed for a moment as if he wanted to say more, but settled instead on singing along softly.

_And here's to you, Mrs. Robinson,  
Jesus loves you more than you will know_

Ford found himself humming along. He didn't know why, but it was an irresistibly catchy song.

_Hey hey hey, hey hey hey_

Ford began to sing as well, louder than Arthur, who glanced at Ford in surprise, laughing and stumbling over the lyrics.

_We'd like to know a little bit about you for our files_  
_We'd like to help you learn to help yourself_  
_Look around you, all you see are sympathetic eyes_  
_Stroll around the grounds until you feel at home_

Ford studied Arthur carefully as they sang together. He looked different like this, from the side, relaxed; his normally weary face was stretched into a wide, youthful smile as he sang along, one arm out the window as the wind whipped about the car. Ford studied his face, his eyes, no longer dull and cow-like, but alight, dancing; Ford's mind was drawn back to the song lyrics, the line about the "sympathetic eyes". His chest fluttered oddly as Arthur glanced over him, catching him staring, perhaps, and sent him a fleeting but beaming grin, so astronomically different from the awkward, self-conscious smiles Arthur had given him thus far. Ford felt caught in the moment, a moment he was sure he would remember for a time to come, in this windy bubble of good music and laughter and comfort and Arthur.

The guitar faded out and the moment ended as the two sat in awkward silence for about twenty seconds before 'A Hazy Shade of Winter' blasted through the stereo. Arthur turned the volume down.

"Do you like Simon and Garfunkel?" he asked. "I've got other stuff, newer stuff. Queen, Eagles, Fleetwood Mac--"

"D'you got Elvis?" Ford asked.

"Uhm, in the back. I can't reach it right now. When we get out of the car I'll grab it." Arthur pulled up to a red light as they neared town, stopping the car gently. "So, you're a--hey! Ford!"

Ford opened the car door and stepped out, unbothered by the cars passing by. He looked calmly at Arthur, who was definitely not unbothered or calm in any sense of the word. "Relax, Arthur. Where's the tape?"

Arthur stared. "The side storage in the back right," he said quietly.

Ford opened to door, found the tape, and got back in the car. "Here," he said, popping it into the tape player.

Arthur stared as Elvis' crooning filled the space. "Ford, you--" he was interrupted by a car horn; the light had turned green and the car behind him was getting impatient. Arthur flushed, putting the car in gear and shouting apologies, seemingly directed at the other driver, though Ford doubted they could hear him. Arthur began to speak but seemed to forget what he was saying, struggling to speak. Ford waited patiently, smiling gently (he hoped) at Arthur. Finally, Arthur scoffed and said, "You must really like Elvis." He left it at that.

***

With the help of Arthur's realtor friend Shelley, Ford found a cheap little rental apartment above a cookie store owned by a sweet, matronly old lady called Mimi. When Shelley had introduced them, the woman had pinched his cheeks and smiled kindly at him. "You seem like such a sweet young man! So attractive! Maybe I'll offer a cheaper price if you give me a smile." Ford put on his most charming grin. "Oh!" she exclaimed, laughing, "the smile of an angel!"

"Her eyesight must be going," Ford thought he heard Arthur mutter to Shelley, who laughed hollowly.

By that afternoon Ford had moved in (he had very little to bring, after all) and was sitting at a window seat in Mimi's shop while she baked a batch of cookies. Arthur had gone back to Shelley's office to pick his car up where he left it, promising Ford he'd pick him up for drinks after a little grocery shopping.

"Hansome boy like yourself, you must have a girlfriend," said Mimi offhandedly.

"No," said Ford, eyeing a snickerdoodle ravenously, "I don't."

Mimi hummed. "Well, then I suppose you must break a lot of girls' hearts when you go out." Ford said nothing. "You know, well, what I'm trying to say is it's okay for you to bring ladies back here when you like. I don't actually live here, and I'll be cleared out by around 21:00 every night. Or--well, I suppose I don't mind if--well, if you bring a bloke back either, if that's your sort of thing. That Freddie Mercury boy--I've met him, did you know?--he's a nice boy, and likes blokes. Allegedly, you know but--anyway. So I guess it's fine."

Ford smiled warmly at her. "Thank you, Mimi. That's very kind of you." He tapped his chin thoughtfully and dug about his satchel for a pen and paper.

'Note:' he wrote, 'not all Earth inhabitants strictly adhere to loving one gender, and likewise not all Earth inhabitants are assholes about it.'

As Ford elaborated his entry, he listened to the rain tapping on the windows. It had begun drizzling not long ago and had slowly been gaining in intensity. Thunder rumbled, louder than before, crescendoing to a clap that rattled Ford's gin-filled teacup. There was nothing, in Ford's opinion, quite like an Earth thunderstorm--they were more intense and beautiful than the storms on Ford's home planet, but thankfully not as intense as the ones on Avulon Alpha, where the storms flooded all the land on the planet and cracked the planet's crust. Ford closed his eyes and sat back for a moment, relaxing for the first time in a while.

He heard the little bell at the door ring mutely in the background before the noise was swallowed up by another clap of thunder. He took another deep breath, enjoying the moment. 

"Well, I'm glad you're relaxed, I suppose," said Arthur. Ford's eyes blinked open slowly to find Arthur standing over him, dark hair dripping, slicked to his forehead, tie loosened and shirt unbuttoned slightly, sopping wet. His cheeks were flushed and he was slightly out of breath.

"You're very wet," Ford commented dryly.

"You're very dry," Arthur retorted. "Mimi, do you have a towel I could borrow?"

Before Mimi could say anything, Ford whipped his large green floral bath towel out of his satchel and held it up to Arthur.

There was a pause.

"Why do you carry a bath towel with you?" Arthur asked, accepting the towel gratefully, toweling his hair off then resting the towel about his neck. Ford found that to be extraordinarily attractive, which was very rude and distracting when he was trying to think up a normal response to that question.

"He's a smart boy, he comes prepared," said Mimi. Ford beamed at her. "Do you not own an umbrella, Mr. Dent?"

Arthur sighed heavily, wrapped Ford's towel about himself (Ford squirmed slightly at the sight, face heating up) and sat down. "I left it at home. I stupidly forgot to check the forecast this morning."

"Guess I'm just that distracting," quipped Ford with a wink. Arthur flushed and rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, having some weird ex-hippie stranger in my house for breakfast is pretty distracting," he shot back. He thanked Mimi when she set a cup of tea on the table for him and took a sip. "What are you writing?" he asked Ford over the rim of his teacup.

Ford realized he had left his notepad open in the middle of the table. He snatched it back quickly, snapping it shut and shoving it into his satchel. "Nothing," he said, "just something for work." He swallowed nervously, hearts beating at a more frantic pace than they usually did. He took a deep breath and did his best not to panic, slouching casually back in his chair and taking a sip of his gin.

Arthur tilted his head, looking much like a confused puppy. "Oh," he said, "Are you a playwright as well as an actor?"

Ford choked on his gin and spluttered. He set his cup down and tried to cover up his blunder with a nervous grin. "Well, uhm, yeah, sort of," he said, wheezing slightly, "not a very good one." He coughed aggressively to get the gin out of his windpipe and lungs.

"What's the play about?" Arthur asked. "What kind is it?"

Ford tapped his teacup nervously. "Erm, it's a comedy. But I can't tell you what it's about."

"Why not?"

"Never you mind," Ford said with a grin. He took a steadying breath and shook himself slightly. "Do you want to go to the pub now?"

Arthur looked at him funny. "It's 15:00," he said, "isn't that a little early?"

Ford rolled his eyes. "You Earthmen and your backward little watches," he said. Feeling bold (and a touch tipsy), he waved his hand dramatically at Arthur, letting his words come out in an exaggerated drawl similar to his semi-cousin Zaphod Beeblebrox's (he wondered briefly what Zaphod was up to. Nothing good, certainly). "Time is a construct, darling, it can be disobeyed."

Arthur stared dully at him. "What," he began, "the bloody _hell_ does that mean?"

"It means you should stop being a prude stick in the mud and come drink with me."

Arthur gave him an unimpressed look. "No. I refuse to go drinking before I've had a proper lunch." He frowned. "Aren't you hungry?"

"No," said Ford.

His stomach grumbled.

"Yes," said Ford.

They thanked Mimi for the tea and headed back to Arthur's. They picked up some takeout on the way, with Ford (extremely politely, he thought) picking up the bill. That night they went out to drink together, and this time the both of them got delightfully drunk. Arthur escorted Ford back to his new apartment, then Ford escorted Arthur back to his car at the pub, then Arthur escorted Ford back to his apartment and told him to stay put, then Ford didn't listen and followed him back to the pub, then Arthur drove him (very poorly and drunkenly) to his apartment, then Ford realized he had left his satchel in Arthur's car (thankfully, he still had his towel slung over his shoulder) and had to run his car down, then finally got the satchel and walked back to his apartment, watching Arthur's car disappear over a hill on the way back to his home.

Ford made it back to his apartment, creeping up the stairs, careful not to wake Mimi. He sat in the old, somewhat dusty armchair in the living room, pulling a cigarette from the pack in his satchel--he couldn't understand why humans smoked them, as they were obviously extremely bad for their lungs and throats and hair and... everything, but it wasn't harmful to him. He took a drag of it, blowing elaborate smoke shapes into the air. He pulled his notepad out, along with his copy of the _Guide_.

He updated his entry on Earthmen and their oddly endearing stupidity and hospitality, and the beauty of an Earth thunderstorm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Americans like me, 15:00 is 3 pm. Sorry for the rushed ending, it was getting a bit long and out of hand! I hope you enjoyed, and remember that comments and kudos are MUCH appreciated!!! <3


	4. But We Disregard the Danger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ford messes up. Amid the fallout, he learns something about Arthur. Chapter title from "The Stranger" by Billy Joel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh boy. sorry this took so long--I've written about five different versions of this chapter and I'm not overly fond of any of them. I haven't had any time recently to sit down and write, and right when I thought I would get that time, I came down with bronchitis!!!! we love that for me!!!!! please let me know if there are any mistakes--I typed a lot of this while high on cough medicine and I don't have a beta reader, so mistakes are bound to happen.
> 
> this chapter features a cameo from everyone's favorite president (of the galaxy, that is)! it also gets a bit angsty, but I don't think there are any content warnings for this, except maybe drinking to cope with emotions. enjoy!! let me know what you think in the comments!! <3

Much to Ford’s horror, time passed by rapidly and before he had fully processed it, he had been living in the sleepy little English town with mediocre nightlife and severe disdain for anything remotely interesting or out of the ordinary for several uneventful weeks. He passed the time doing mundane things with Arthur-- going to the local pubs, catching a cricket game, taking day trips into London, crashing university parties and trying (and failing) to chat up the girls there.

Much to Ford’s horror, he found himself enjoying it.

Arthur grew to be even more of an enigma to Ford as the weeks went on--he was at face value prudish and awkward, yet in certain moments he seemed to let his guard down and became dynamic, relaxed and even a bit flirty, to the point that Ford questioned if perhaps the Arthur was interested in him. More than once, Ford found himself sitting far too close to Arthur after a late night out and had been fairly certain that if he leaned in just a bit and closed the gap between them, Arthur would not have minded in the slightest (Ford even thought that maybe he wanted him to kiss him, what with the lingering glances Arthur sometimes aimed at Ford's lips). But he never did kiss him, and the next morning Arthur would be back to his usual crabby self with his absurdly strict personal space bubble.

Arthur taught Ford the concept of a personal bubble one night in London when the two had gone out clubbing and Ford had not wanted to stop touching Arthur at any point; he convinced himself he was merely looking out for Arthur, guiding him about the clubs with an arm around his shoulders, or on the small of his back, or wrapped around his waist from behind, not trying to ward off the overly friendly girls and lurking men he noticed looking at Arthur. (Arthur did look, in Ford's humble opinion, deliciously fuckable that night in tight trousers and a half-unbuttoned shirt that clung to his tall frame nicely. Ford had picked out the outfit himself, scrummaging about Arthur's closet until he found something he deemed acceptable for the occasion that Arthur would actually agree to wear.) Arthur, having finally had enough when Ford startled away a pretty bird with long black hair who had seemed more than interested in him, had dragged Ford out onto the street, grasped him by the shoulders, and firmly explained personal bubbles to him and why he should not violate them. Ford very calmly explained to Arthur that he thought these bubbles were bullshit, and Arthur told him not so calmly that he was a child and should not be allowed in public without a supervisor in a tone which suggested Ford should definitely drop the conversation immediately. Ford, in a strange moment of intelligence, did, and the night continued as normally as it possibly could when Ford and Arthur were involved, though Ford admittedly couldn't remember much else from the evening.

Now, however, Ford was engaged in a very intense game of Betelgeusian table tennis with his famously hoopy two-headed semi-cousin Zaphod Beeblebrox. From what he could tell, he was being beaten pretty soundly, which he blamed on the fact that Zaphod had somehow acquired a third arm that he certainly had not possessed the last time they had seen each other. Ford looked around for a moment--he couldn't make out much about the room except that it was a bright orange color that he did not enjoy very much. He focused his attention back on Zaphod, who was looking at him rather impatiently, two hands situated on his hips, his third arm busy with gesturing rudely at Ford.

"I go through all this trouble to visit you and you won't even pay attention to me? What the hell's got you acting so strange, Ix?" said Zaphod in their native language.

"Ford," Ford corrected immediately. "It's Ford, now. Ford Prefect."

Zaphod squinted at him with all four eyes. "Ford Prefect?" he said incredulously, the foreign name sounding strange and clumsy on his tongue. He rolled one set of eyes, the other set continuing to squint at Ford. "Whatever, kid. Are you going to answer my question?" He hit a table-tennis ball at Ford impatiently.

Ford batted it back across the table lazily. "Erm, yes, well, what question was that exactly? It seems I wasn't--"

"Paying attention? Yeah, no shit," Zaphod interrupted. Ford bristled--Zaphod never failed to put him on edge, and he was certainly getting under his skin right now. "I asked," Zaphod continued, hitting the ball back to Ford's end, "what you're up to these days."

Ford swatted viciously at the ball, sneering when Zaphod returned it easily. "Oh, you know, top-secret stuff for the _Guide_. Nothing you would know anything about." Ford dove across the table to return an admittedly nice hit from Zaphod.

"Ix, no-one's heard anything from you in ten years," Zaphod said, taking advantage of Ford lying sprawled across the table to nonchalantly hit it to where he couldn't reach, winning the point and placing a hand on his hip in haughty victory. "Why don't you tell me what you're actually up to."

Ford glared up at him. "I told you, it's Ford," he spat, "and since when are you so serious? You've never been this concerned about my wellbeing." He picked himself up off of the table and plucked the ball off the ground, serving it aggressively.

Zaphod returned the ball using his left arm this time. "I know you think you're unpredictable, _Ford_ , but you really aren't. It's not like you to drop off for this long without any word." Ford used one of his famous trick shots to try and get the upper hand in the game, but Zaphod played it easily with his third arm. "The galaxy's become boring without you, I have to make the chaos all on my own. Plus, it's a lot harder to travel now since that book of yours is so out of date." Zaphod performed an irritating flick of his scarf that caused Ford to send the ball flying off the table and out of play. "Why haven't you updated?"

Ford ran a hand through his hair, leaning on the table. "Well," he said, then promptly launched into the story of his circumstance. Zaphod listened uncharacteristically well, only raising an eyebrow when Ford launched into the details of his situation with Arthur.

Ford felt considerably lighter when he finished, and the room had shifted to a sunny yellow color. He looked at Zaphod expectantly, drumming his fingers on the table nervously.

"Zarquon," said Zaphod, "when did you become such a schoolgirl?"

"What?" Ford sputtered. "What the photon does that mean?"

"It means, kiddo, that you're overcomplicating things," Zaphod said cooly. "Now, I'd love to stick around and give you advice, except I wouldn't, and I've got better things to do, a galaxy to run, you know how it is."

"Oh, sure--wait, what?" Ford asked testily.

"Here's my card if you need to get in touch," said Zaphod, "now you'd better be waking up."

" _What?_ " Ford exclaimed before Zaphod vanished in a puff of smoke. Something hit Ford in the chest. He looked down at the table and saw a little card lying faceup with a galactic messaging number and the words "Zaphod Beeblebrox, President of the Galaxy" printed in fun green lettering.

"Zarquon," Ford said aloud, "How the fuck did they let that happen?"

The room flashed bright colors at him and Ford felt rather queasy but pocketed the card nevertheless. Then there was a flash of light and the odd little room and the Betelgeusian table-tennis table was gone.

***

Ford awoke to an unfamiliar amount of sunlight, an empty bed, and a delicious ache throughout his body.

He rolled over and went back to sleep.

"No, no, no," said a stern voice. Ford figured it must be God with some important divine intervention that Ford should probably pay heed to. "It's past 15:00, I don't care how bloody hungover you are, you said you'd buy me brunch today and that hasn't happened yet." God shook Ford's shoulder impatiently. He didn't remember planning a brunch with God, but he also didn't remember really anything about the previous night, so he supposed it was a reasonable assumption that he had.

"Get the hell up, Ford," God said testily.

"Fuck off," said Ford to God, and burrowed farther into his covers.

God sighed heavily. Ford thought that the sigh sounded incredibly familiar. "Look, it was already rude of you to up and ditch me at the club last night, and now you're trying to stand me up today--who the bloody hell raised you?"

 _I ditched God?_ Ford wondered blearily as hazy memories of the night before began to come back to him at a rapid rate, making him feel as though he'd just drunk a Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster far too quickly. He and Arthur went clubbing, he learned the meaning of a personal space bubble, he spent the better part of an hour trying to convince Arthur to dance with him, he finally succeeded, then--

"Oh, Zarquon," Ford said aloud, then winced. He rolled over and squinted up at Arthur, who stood with his arms crossed over his chest, haloed by the afternoon sun at his back like an incredibly pissed off angel.

"You don't even remember last night, do you," Arthur said flatly, eyebrow raised in a most unimpressed manner.

 _I do,_ Ford wanted to say. _I remember how awkwardly you danced and how brightly you smiled. I remember how good you looked, all flushed and sweaty, and I remember wondering how you tasted. I remember your face when I grabbed your hips and how you leaned in towards me and how I pulled back because I knew if I didn't I wouldn't be able to keep from kissing you and I didn't want to lose my only friend on this godforsaken rock. I remember how you blushed and left to go to the bathroom and I remember grabbing the first queer bloke I could find and--_

"No," said Ford, because he'd always preferred to take the easy way out, "I don't remember anything."

Arthur watched him quietly with something like disappointment in his eyes. The sunlight became too much for Ford to bear in his hungover state and he pulled the covers up over his head, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.

The silence stretched on for a moment, too intense for Ford to pull the covers back down or to fall asleep. He breathed slowly, feeling suffocated by the quilt and the atmosphere and by Arthur's disappointment.

" _Fuck_ ," Arthur whispered finally, not meant for Ford to hear, sounding wrecked and not in the good way. The bed dipped as Arthur sat gently on it. "Do you have Ibuprofen?" he murmured, and in that moment Ford felt spectacularly unworthy.

"No," he croaked, "gin will do just fine." He steeled himself for a moment, then peeked out from under his quilt. "Could you close the curtains, please?"

"Sure," Arthur said as he stood. The room darkened as he threw the curtains closed. Ford watched him carefully make his way back to the bed. "You need to drink some water and take some medicine, Ford. I think more alcohol would kill you."

"I'll be fine," said Ford, "the gin's in the cabinet above the sink."

Arthur stared at him. "I'm gonna pop downstairs and see if Mimi has any Ibuprofen. Stay here."

"Don't have much choice, do I?" Ford mumbled, closing his eyes and dozing off.

Ford awoke to a gentle hand on his shoulder. "I got you some medicine, Ford," Arthur said tightly. "Sit up and take it."

Ford did so begrudgingly, complaining when Arthur made him drink the rest of the water he brought with him.

"I talked to Mimi," Arthur said seriously, and a strange sinking feeling settled in Ford's gut--or did he just have to vomit?

"How is she?" Ford asked, hoping to make pleasant conversation.

"She said you brought someone home last night," Arthur said very quietly, looking down at his lap and pursing his lips.

Ford swallowed hard. His throat was tight with guilt; it got tighter as he sat up and felt his thighs rub together in a sticky way that told him exactly what he had gotten up to the night before. He hoped he wasn't blushing--his skin turned an interesting blue shade when flushed, which would not be very helpful at the moment.

"Yeah," he said, "I did." He watched Arthur closely. He was chewing on his cheek and picking at his cuticles. "I thought she had left by the time I got back?"

"She had," Arthur replied. "She told me she left some of her tupperware here and came back for it." He licked his lips and lifted his head to look Ford in the eye. "She said... she said it was a man. That you... brought back."

Ford said nothing. He didn't think there was anything to say. Arthur, however, stared at him expectantly, blinking at him, which Ford found rather rude until he remembered that blinking was a necessity for humans and their eternally dry eyes. Ford resisted the urge to groan at Arthur's insistence that he affirm statements of fact.

"Yes," he said finally, if only to make Arthur quit looking at him like that.

Arthur looked down sharply. He worried his lip with his teeth. Ford worried it would bleed. There was, in Ford's opinion, far too much worrying going on. "You need to be more careful, Ford," he said at last. "I kind of figured you... leaned that way, but... I'm much more understanding than the majority of the population, and you can't just--"

"Why?"

"Wha'?" Arthur sputtered, glancing at Ford in utter confusion.

"Why are you so much more understanding than most?" Ford asked pleasantly.

"I, well, I suppose I just--"

"Oh!" said Ford brightly, "have you tried it?"

"Tried--what?!" Arthur babbled. "What are you suggesting?"

"Relax, Arthur, it's fine! I slept with a man last night, why would I be bothered that you have as well?" Ford reached out and patted Arthur's knee in a comforting manner, snatching his hand back when Arthur leaped up suddenly.

"Ford, you can't just say things about--about _that_ \--so casually! How do you not understand how dangerous that is? It was illegal not even a bloody decade ago--"

"Was it?" Ford said, taken aback, "was it illegal?"

Arthur glared at him. "Yes, Ford it was illegal! And a lot of people think it should still be! I don't need your bloody 'was it illegal' sarcasm bullshit!" Ford tried to interject to say that he had a very poor grasp on sarcasm and highly doubted that he had used it intentionally, but Arthur barrelled on, growing frantic. "Just because you're lucky enough to have grown up in an accepting place with an accepting family doesn't mean everyone else does! Just because you're comfortable with being the way you are doesn't mean everyone else is, okay! There are people who suffer because they can't be who they are, Ford, do you understand that?" Arthur shouted, then snapped his mouth shut, looking quite surprised with himself, and even more surprised with the handful of tears rolling down his cheeks.

Ford chewed his lip thoughtfully as Arthur trembled in distress. He wondered what he should do--different species found comfort in different ways, and individuals within species often differed on what gestures comforted them most effectively. Ford examined his shaking friend for just a moment longer before deciding (partially due to concern, but mostly due to his own selfish desire to have Arthur close) to pull him into a hug.

He didn't expect Arthur to react in the way he did--breaking down into heavy sobs and pulling Ford close, fingers digging into his shoulder blades as they scrabbled desperately at his back. Ford made a face--he didn't exactly enjoy the wet tears soaking his neck and shirt, but he quickly put on a more concerned expression and began making cooing noises he was sure he had heard humans make before when comforting one another.

Arthur eventually calmed down, but he stayed close to Ford, not seeming to notice (or if he did notice, care) that Ford was still naked under his quilt. Ford continued to coo at him, a hand carding through his hair in what he hoped was a comforting manner until he felt Arthur's shoulders begin shaking again. Ford pulled back to reassess the situation, unsure as to why Arthur was crying again, but slowly realized that Arthur was actually laughing. Quite hysterically, in fact--he was letting out breathless, squeaky sounds Ford was quite sure he had never heard him make before. This made Ford rather uneasy--he had learned in his travels that typically when someone was laughing for a reason unbeknownst to him, he was the butt of the joke, so to speak.

"... What is it?" he ventured cautiously, reluctantly removing his hand from Arthur's hair.

Arthur wiped at his eyes, obviously fighting off another bought of laughter and mostly failing. Ford rather thought it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. He then pinched his thigh rather aggressively; he couldn't allow himself to think that way about anyone, especially not on Earth, especially not when at any point a spaceship could show up and he could be whisked away, back to his crazy galactic existence--and especially not about Arthur.

"Well, I don't mean to sound rude, but," Arthur choked out, "what were those noises you were making?" Arthur dissolved into another fit, burying his face in his hands.

Ford chewed on his lip. "Comforting noises?" he said hopefully.

Arthur delighted in this, giggling wildly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Ford," he squeaked, "those were--were noises y-you make to cute animals, not t-to crying people!" Ford looked at him oddly. "You were cooing at me like I was your bloody pet!"

"Aren't you?" Ford asked before he could stop himself. He bit his tongue and tried to gauge Arthur's reaction.

Arthur's laughter died down quickly and he stared at Ford, eyelids fluttering strangely as he bit his lip, glancing at Ford's lips in a way that Ford thought resembled desire. Ford noted the way Arthur shuddered slightly as he inhaled, cheeks flushed, watched avidly at how Arthur's lips formed his words--

"Would you like me to be?"

Ford had no choice but to capture his lips in a kiss, flinging his arms around Arthur's shoulders when he responded enthusiastically. The kiss turned heated quickly, Ford dominating as he licked into Arthur's mouth, overjoyed when Arthur, seemingly wanting more control, grabbed Ford's hips through the quilt (a few of his fingertips pressed hard into the bruises Ford's visitor had left the previous night, drawing a shameless moan from Ford) and tipped him onto his back, crawling on top of him, never breaking the kiss. Ford grasped at him, at his shirt, wanting it gone, wanting Arthur as close as possible. Arthur's hand trailed up his body, tracing Ford's ribs, gracing over his nipples, pausing momentarily at his throat before pushing into Ford's hair, grasping a handful of red curls and tugging sharply. Ford's resulting shout was only slightly muffled by Arthur's lips and he rolled his hips up to meet Arthur's, who moaned deliciously--

"Ford, dear," said Mimi, knocking on the door. Ford blinked in surprise while Arthur leaped off of him and into the armchair with impressive speed.

"Y--" Ford's voice came out choked and embarrassingly high-pitched as he watched Arthur straighten his shirt and hair frantically, refusing to make eye contact with Ford. "Yes? Come in?" He winced as Arthur's head snapped up to glare at him in shock. Ford swallowed hard as he watched Arthur cross his legs just before Mimi opened the door, trying to hide his--

"Is everything alright, boys? I heard some shouting and I wanted to check up on you two," Mimi poked her head in, looking incredibly uneasy.

Ford wasn't sure what to say, so he looked to Arthur, figuring he would know what to do. He was staring at a spot near the floor, face still flushed, finger rubbing nervously over his top lip.

"I made tea?" Mimi ventured.

Ford felt about his bed awkwardly, focusing on finding his underwear from last night. He felt them, as well as his pants, at the foot of his bed and tried to slip them on under his covers as quickly and subtly as possible. When feeling about his pants, he noticed something sticking out of the pocket. Upon furthur inspection, it was a small rectangular card upon which was a galactic messaging number and familiar green lettering. He startled when Arthur said sharply, "We're fine, Mimi, just had a bit of a disagreement. It's all resolved now. Thank you for the tea." Ford felt Arthur's eyes on him and looked up, hoping to catch his eye, but Arthur was already looking away, seemingly furious.

"Oh, that's a shame," said Mimi, pushing her way into the apartment and setting the tea down on Ford's breakfast table, "what over?"

Arthur obviously had not thought that far and blanched. "Oh, erm, well--"

"Cricket!" Ford provided helpfully. Arthur shot him a look of surprise. "Just an argument over cricket loyalties, betting--you know how all that gets." He flashed Mimi a blinding grin. "Thank you for the tea, love, I'll be downstairs and out of your way in just a mo', yes?"

Mimi smiled at him. "Alright, dearie, it's no trouble at all, really. I'm glad it's nothing too serious, you boys get on splendidly, I'd hate to see you fighting." She made her way over to ruffle Ford's hair, then Arthur's. "I'll see you boys in a bit, try not to bite each other's heads off in the meantime, yes?" They both nodded and watched as she left the room.

They sat in silence, listening to Mimi make her way downstairs until they couldn't hear her anymore. Ford looked at Arthur who was staring blankly at the door, gripping the armchair so hard his knuckles were white.

"Fuck," Arthur said eloquently.

"Yes, lets," said Ford with a grin, letting his quilt slip down to just above the hemline of his newly acquired boxers. Arthur said nothing. "Arthur?" Ford prompted. "Do you want to continue?"

Arthur looked at him finally, lower lip trembling slightly until he bit down on it. "Yes," he whispered. "God, yes."

Ford smiled at him and patted the bed. "Then get over here and let's get to it!" He said brightly. Arthur did nothing. Ford glanced around somewhat frantically and saw his record player on his bedside table, Elvis Presley record already placed on it. "Here!" said Ford, reaching over and queuing up his favorite track, "This'll help, you know, lighten the mood, maybe," Ford stuttered out as Elvis' crooning filled the air.

Arthur stood slowly and made his way over to stand next to Ford, who propped himself up on one arm. He looked up at Arthur, offering a slightly less blinding grin, hoping it would comfort the other man. Arthur simply reached a hand out slowly to cup Ford's face, thumb rubbing gingerly across Ford's high cheekbone. Ford's smile dropped off slowly and he looked up at Arthur with concern but did not say anything. Arthur seemed to struggle with himself for a moment, silently watching Ford as he stroked his cheek in a way that Ford would almost call loving. Finally, he spoke, but he said the exact opposite of what Ford was hoping for.

"I can't," Arthur croaked. "I'm sorry." He began to retract his hand, fingers brushing gently along Ford's jawline and chin, and every nerve in Ford's body screamed at him to grab his hand, to say something, but Ford did nothing. "I'm sorry," he whispered again, before turning, grabbing his jacket off the back of the armchair, and leaving, the door closing softly behind him.

With the click of the door handle, everything crashed down on Ford at once, and he grabbed uselessly at his chest where both his hearts were aching. The song, still playing softly, did nothing to help matters. There was not much, Ford figured, that would.

Ford got up and stumbled to pour himself some gin.

_Love me tender, love me long_  
_Take me to your heart_  
_For it's there that I belong_  
_And will never part_

_Love me tender, love me true_  
_All my dreams fulfill_  
_For my darling I love you_  
_And I always will_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... sorry. feel free to yell at me in the comments!! they are much appreciated, as are kudos! hope you enjoyed and have a lovely day/evening/night!  <333


	5. I Tell My Love to Wreck it All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ford is reunited with Arthur after a crazy few weeks in London ending in a health scare. Arthur is having trouble coping. Chapter title from "Skinny Love" by Bon Iver.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, minding my business, hustling to publish this chapter: :)
> 
> creepy crawly bug that i, in a moment of foolish benevolence about an hour earlier, did not squish: _it's free real estate_
> 
> CONTENT WARNINGS for discussions of homophobia, drug use, discussions of suicide and drug overdose (no one actually attempts suicide), and nonconsensual sex. this one's a doozy, y'all. be careful!!! if you don't want to read these things but want to know kinda what happened, let me know in the comments and i will gladly tell you!!!
> 
> HAPPY PRIDE MONTH!!!! whether you're out and proud or buried in the closet (like me oof) i hope this pride month made u feel valid and gave you a sense of solidarity!!!
> 
> "why is this so late?" you may be wondering. it is almost 75% michael sheen's fault. Good Omens killed me on impact. I'm publishing this from beyond the grave. please enjoy!!!! i use too many exclamation marks and i don't care!!!!!! you can pry them from my cold dead hands!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The little bell above the door of the cookie shop rang louder than it should be capable of, louder than anything he had heard in his life; its high-pitched clang rattled about between his ears and through his brain in a murky yet all-encompassing sort of way, perhaps like water so muddy and disgusting it was impossible to escape. Perhaps like quicksand.

“Quicksand,” Ford said. “Quicksand.”

In contrast to the bell, his own voice sounded faint and far away, as if the words were being muttered across the vacuum of space and had somehow made it to him from lightyears away, only his ears were stuffed with Taelaren sheep’s wool, the thickest and most efficient sound-blocking substance in the galaxy.

“Hee hee!” Ford giggled, “wool!” Dull pain shot up his right side as he stumbled into the side of a doorway. This was funny, yes? He decided it was and laughed, which caused his ribs to ache and his world to spin and sway and dip and twist more than it already had been, but he continued right on with it, because whoever said there was no pleasure to be found in pain?

“Ford!” Said somebody, sounding quite distressed. Ford thought perhaps they were saying something else as well, but the words were too busy floating in and out of his only partially conscious mind to allow for him to decipher them. Distantly, he felt hands on him, at least two, guiding him firmly towards… someplace, somewhere, sometime. He was glad. He’d rather be anywhere than where he was now, at the bottom of a murky well of quicksand and sheep’s wool with some lovely white powder coursing through his body, doing its damnedest to shut down his systems for long enough to, if he was lucky (or was it unlucky? He wasn’t sure), kill him.

“Oh, dearie, stay with me. I’m calling that friend of yours.” Friend? Ford was quite sure he didn’t have any of those anymore. His mouth made a valiant attempt to point this out to whomever it was that was pressing a frigid cold towel to his burning forehead and stroking a comforting hand through his sweaty, greasy hair, but his brain didn’t quite get the memo, and he ended up just garbling out a nonsensical Betelgeuesian proverb and collapsing into the bed he had found himself suddenly spread out upon. He listened out for the voice again, hearing nothing but the oddly relaxing, methodical click of a telephone number being punched in. He let himself float, his nerve endings on fire, his hands and legs twitching frantically, still laughing breathlessly, tears burning streaks down his face, carving out lines in his cheeks he was sure would scar eventually, scarred all different colors until his face was a galaxy, a supernova of cuts and scars and colors and was this it? Was this the mythic high humans gave up everything to chase? Ruined their lives to find? Did this make them feel closer to their God? Is this what it’s supposed to feel like? Why does it hurt? _Why, God, why does it--_

“Mr. Dent? I think you need to come over here, it…”

Ford stopped thrashing on the bed. He stopped laughing painfully. He stopped listening for the voice, for the telephone, for anything.

“Mr. Dent?”

Ford stared at the ceiling. It still swayed and bobbed dangerously at him, but he hardly noticed.

_“Mr. Dent?”_

_Arthur_ , Ford thought.

“Arthur,” Ford said.

“Yes, dearie, Arthur’s on his way, you relax now, alright, just--Ford? Ford! _Ford_!”

Arthur was coming. That was nice. Ford rather missed him.

Then he remembered. Why he missed Arthur. Why his hearts felt like two very tiny little paper ships being tossed about in the raging sea that was his chest and body. Why there was no pleasure to be found in this pain. Why he was here in the first place.

Fuck.

The world went dark.

***

Ford didn’t remember much after that. He assumed he passed out. He remembered brief flashes of the next few… minutes? Hours? Days? He wasn’t sure. He remembered, very vaguely, some mostly nonsensical dreams, one of which involved Zaphod Beeblebrox staring at Ford in disappointment, then bashing his head against a wall in frustration. Another dream was of him and Arthur holding hands in public. Another was slightly more explicit.

Ford remembered a strong, sure hand removing the now lukewarm towel, stroking his forehead, then placing down a new, cold towel to soothe him. He remembered a familiar scent, a deep, ‘masculine’ scent like pine, tinged with hints of something nicer, something like cinnamon, something like home. He remembered the eyes--Arthur’s eyes--staring down at him with unfathomable emotion held within their muddy depths, held in the line between his eyebrows and the purple bruises under his eyes and the red veins running through them, the way his eyelashes clung together as if he had been crying.

He definitely remembered waking up once with Arthur who, instead of sitting beside the bed, was on the bed, propped up next to Ford, humming softly. He was dressed in work clothes; a button-down shirt and tie, with dress slacks and fancy shoes still on. He had an arm around Ford’s shoulders, and Ford’s head was resting softly on Arthur’s chest. Ford felt long, gentle fingers combing through his hair, gingerly working out knots and ghosting over his scalp in a way that made him tingle all over. Arthur did not seem to realize Ford was awake and continued humming some Beatles song Ford couldn’t remember the title of. It was a pretty song, a love song, one that Ford had always liked. He allowed himself to relax into Arthur’s soft touch and drift off to the loving tune. Ford was glad he could remember that.

What Ford did not want to remember, however, was the car ride.

***

Mimi saw them off, waving out the door of the cookie shop as Arthur helped Ford into the car (a humiliating process which Ford wanted to never ever go through again) and drove off toward his house, where he’d be keeping an eye on Ford for the next… however long was needed, Ford supposed. They hadn’t exactly set a time limit. Ford and Arthur sat in tense silence, only interrupted by Arthur’s fingers drumming rapidly on the steering wheel.

“So,” said Arthur.

“So,” Ford replied hoarsely. He’d kill for a glass of water.

There was silence. Ford counted in his head how many seconds passed.

“Do you want to tell me what the actual bloody fuck that was?” said Arthur.

“Fourty-two,” said Ford.

“What?” said Arthur.

“Nothing,” said Ford.

More silence. This time, Ford didn’t count. Arthur made a right-hand turn, the engine grumbling as he switched gears.

“Well?” Arthur prompted.

“Well, what?” Ford responded.

Arthur sighed in irritation. “Well,” he snapped, “are you going to explain yourself?”

“Ohhh.” Ford drawled. “That. No.”

Arthur smacked the steering wheel in frustration. Ford jumped. He was reminded briefly of his father.

“I’m sorry,” said Arthur, and any resemblance to Ford’s father vanished. Arthur took a deep, controlled breath, flicking his turn signal on slowly. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, “I didn’t mean to startle you.” Ford nodded, understanding. “But goddamnit, Ford--” Arthur’s voiced cracked, and Ford glanced over at him, surprised to see tears welling in the human’s eyes. “You almost died! We had a fight and you disappeared and then the next time I see you you’re shaking and pale and vomiting and dying and it’s because you went and overdosed on fucking cocaine--”

“It wasn’t an overdose, it was an accident--”

“I’m supposed to believe that?” Arthur shouted. “What the hell were you doing with coke anyway, Ford? It’s dangerous! If you don’t explain to me what--what’s wrong, why you--what you--what happened,” Arthur took a shaky breath, “I’m going to pull this car over and I’m going to shake it out of you because I deserve to know, okay, I’m your friend and I’m involved in it and probably responsible for it in some capacity and I--I deserve to know, I need to know, Ford!”

Ford stared over at the human in the driver's seat; this beautiful, caring, bumbling human who took him in and looked after him and didn’t hate him for being strange, just thought he was quirky and fun to be around, this wonderful creature who made Ford’s chest ache and breath come fast and eyes sting and made Ford happier than he perhaps had ever been merely by singing along rather poorly to a pop song or two; he looked at him, vulnerable and trembling, tears threatening to spill over, hands and shoulders shaking; he looked at Arthur, utterly broken, and only cared for him more. And Ford knew, then, that he had to explain himself.

Ford sat up straighter and took a deep breath.

***  
Ford arrived in London late at night, stepping off the train at a frenetic pace and continuing it until he found a nightclub. He didn’t have to search long; the city was full of them, and he found a nifty underground one right near the center of the city simply by following two men dressed in tight leather and eyeliner. The club was certainly more his scene than a little country town; bodies grinding together, sweat dripping, shitty music so loud it was deafening. The best part was the easy access to free alcohol--Ford was wearing a tight, sheer shirt and pants that left absolutely nothing to the imagination, as well as some eye makeup and glitter, so he didn’t even have to work hard to get people to offer to buy him drinks.

He knocked back another shot of tequila, tilting his head back and forth to pop his neck, before setting down the empty glass and heading out to the dance floor. Right away, a tall, broad-shouldered man approached him, putting his hands on Ford’s hips and pulling him deeper into the throng of thrashing bodies. Ford closed his eyes and reveled in it; reveled in the firm grip on his hips, the hands tracing up his ribs and over his shoulders as he swayed his hips to the beat, reveled in the joy of feeling desired and the loving embrace of anonymity.

“Let me buy you a drink,” the man said, shouting to be heard over the music, lips gracing Ford’s ear. He had told Ford his name, but Ford had already forgotten it. Ford nodded reluctantly, only willing to leave the dance floor on the promise of alcohol.

“What’s your name?” the man asked as they approached the bar. Ford smiled openly at the men giving him appreciative looks, winking at one, a willowy young lad with kind eyes.

Ford began to say his name, then hesitated. His name was rather odd, from a human standpoint, and tonight, well--tonight, he didn’t want to be odd, or different. He didn’t want to stand out. He wanted to be anonymous, a good dancer with a nice ass and pretty eyes who was gone as soon as he came and just as easily forgotten.

“James,” Ford lied, smiling blandly at the man. “Tequila, please.”

He and the man struck up a rather lame conversation which Ford was only half listening to, something about weather and music and interior design. Ford turned around for a moment to drag the little bowl of peanuts closer to him, cracking one and popping it in his mouth.

“What do you need them for?” asked the man.

“Help process the alcohol,” Ford said easily. “Plus, I’m hungry.” he ate another peanut pointedly, rather annoyed with the question.

The man laughed. “What’s the matter? Can’t hold your alcohol?”

Ford knew it was a taunt to get a rise out of him; humans always thought they were being sneaky when trying to manipulate others, but it was painfully obvious. Still, he had nothing better to do, so he took the bait, raising his glass in a mock toast and downing it in one go. It was rather salty.

Ford woke up the next morning in a hotel room he didn’t recognize with no memories of the night prior, save for the salty tequila, and an ache in his lower half that suggested he had been up to some crazy rough things. He thought nothing of it (it wasn’t that uncommon of an occurrence for him), grabbed the few things he found of his in the hotel room, and left, doing his best to shake the feeling that his skin was dirty, that _he_ was dirty.

He didn’t tell Arthur about that. Ford thought that would make Arthur rather angry.

He did tell Arthur about the other bars he went to, the ones where he made friends, had good alcohol, got into some drugs. Marijuana was his favorite, he told Arthur, even though it smelled very bad. He stayed away from the heavier stuff. He told Arthur it was because he thought it might be bad for him. He didn’t tell him that really, he didn’t want to wake up in another stark, unfamiliar hotel room with a terrible headache and a used condom on the floor.

He also didn’t mention the sheer amount of sex he had. It was almost like traveling the galaxy again; every night he went home with at least one person, every night he had at least one orgasm. If he could, he’d stay with that person the next day for a few long hours in bed before going hunting again that night. Ford delighted in it; sex had always been a wonderful means of coping with (or, more accurately, hiding from) his problems and challenges, and he was certainly getting a good amount of “coping” in while he was in London.

After about a week or two, Ford found himself growing sick of London, and also found himself at a wild party at a flat in Islington. He was striking up a conversation with some drunk rugby fans, one of his favorite pastimes, when he glanced across the room and saw a tall, beautiful woman in odd, brightly colored clothing. It covered her whole body, including a lilac cloth wrapped around her head, hiding her hair and neck. She was sitting alone, sipping at a drink, scanning the crowd in a predatory way, eyes dark. Ford watched her for a moment, intrigued, before excusing himself from his now absolutely hammered rugby loving peers and making his way over to her.

She noticed him before he reached her. She scanned him up and down, squinting at him in a way that made him squirm in both intimidation and a little excitement. After seemingly assessing him, she nodded minutely and glanced away. Ford took this as a sign that he was permitted to approach.

“May I sit with you?” He asked, gesturing to the empty space next to her on the miniature sofa (what was it called? Love seat?) with his drink.

She looked up at him, then looked him up and down again. “Sure,” she said, scooting over to make room for him. Ford sat, taking a sip of his drink, preparing to start the conversation, but she beat him to it.

“I’ve never seen you at one of these parties,” she said, taking a drag of the cigarette she was holding. “Did you move here recently?”

Ford nodded. “Fairly, yes. A few months ago.” She simply nodded. “I’m Ford, by the way,” he said with a grin.

She smiled back. “Nice to meet you, Ford.” She turned to face him. “Why’d you come over here, Ford?” she asked pointedly.

Ford shrugged. “Well, I mean, you’re very pretty, as I’m sure you’re aware, but…” he took a sip of his drink. “I was curious about the…” he searched for the right word, “headscarf. Why do you wear it?”

The woman shifted somewhat uncomfortably. “My religion,” she said, and left it like that.

Ford shrugged. “Okay,” he said. “Nice weather tonight, hm?”

The woman looked somewhat surprised, but quickly hid it. “Yes,” she said, “it’s a very clear night. You can see a lot of stars.” She took a pull of her own drink.

“The stars?” asked Ford. That tugging feeling at the back of his brain, the one tugging towards Betelgeuse, towards home, intensified. “Do you know much about them?”

“Sure,” the woman said, “I’ve a degree in astrophysics. Would you like me to show them to you?”

About fifteen minutes later, he and the woman were on the roof of the flat, lying on their backs, stargazing. She was pointing out constellations and stars to him, explaining the navigational handiness of Polaris, and telling him about astrology, which she considered “a bunch of flaming horse shite.”

“Can you see Betelgeuse from here?” he asked.

She gave him a weird look, but pointed it out easily. Ford fought back the tears trying their best to make their way past his lash line.

Another half-hour later, Ford was still flat on his back, watching the stars, watching where he knew his home was, fighting back both tears and thoughts that he’d like to do this with Arthur, show him the night sky, show him his home. The woman, however, was now moving on top of him, her nails digging slightly into Ford’s now-bare chest as she rode him, his hands stroking her thighs absently. He knew he shouldn’t be making her do all of the work, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to care. He silently thanked Zarquon that it was a little too dark for the woman to notice the physical differences between him and human males.

He briefly thought that he’d like to do this with Arthur, too. He’d really like that.

He was too deep into his thoughts to notice the woman slowing her pace above him and calling out his name. He finally noticed when she took his face in her hands and forced him to look at her.

“Ford, do you want me to stop? You don’t seem to be enjoying this.”

“No! No, I’m fine, just a bit distracted, please keep going!” Ford insisted, moving his hands up to her soft hips and squeezing a bit.

The woman looked at him with something like pity. “Ford, you aren’t even hard. It’s fine if you’re not into it, don’t force yourself to do anything you don’t want to.” She climbed out of Ford’s lap and he let his hands drop down at his sides.

Ford watched her move; she really was gorgeous, with long, dark hair, dark skin, full lips, and a regal looking hooked nose. She was tall and full figured, with strong, shapely legs, a great ass, and, quite frankly, a wonderful pair of tits that any other night Ford would be happily engaged with instead of moping about like a bum. He watched her as she re-tied her headscarf and pulled her underwear back on before flopping back down next to him with a sigh.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to her.

“It’s fine,” she said, “I understand.”

They watched the stars together for a few more moments, listening to the party still going on underneath them.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.

“No,” Ford said.

“You sure?” she asked again.

“... No,” Ford admitted. He blinked up at the stars for a moment, then told her everything. About Arthur, about how kind he was and how he made Ford eggs and helped him find an apartment and went out for drinks with him and about their fight and their kiss and Mimi interrupting. He told her about the man and the salty tequila from the other night, though upon seeing her vaguely horrified face, he wished he hadn’t. He wrapped up his story as quickly as possible and stared up at the stars, waiting for an eventual response.

“Well,” the woman said slowly, “it sounds like this Arthur fellow is afraid.”

“But why?” Ford said, propping himself up on his elbows and looking over at her. She propped herself up in turn, seemingly indifferent about her chest still being exposed. “I don’t understand why he’s afraid, I mean, what’s he afraid of? Me?” Ford gestured at himself. “I’m like a foot shorter than him, why the hell is he afraid of me?”

The woman looked at him oddly again. “Ford,” she began slowly. “He’s scared of people finding out. He doesn’t want people knowing he’s homosexual.” She sighed heavily. “He has good reason to be. Really, you should be too.”

“Why?”

The woman looked at him incredulously. “Ford, just last week a man turned up murdered, beaten to a pulp for being gay. If your employers find out you’re gay, bam, you’re out of a job, good luck ever finding one again.” She reached out to drum her fingers on Ford’s collarbone absently. “It was incredibly risky telling me that you’re into men. For all you knew, I could have been disgusted by it. I could have tried to shove you off the roof or something.” Ford gaped at her. “It’s a dangerous world for people like you, Ford. It shouldn’t be, but it is. You have to be more careful.” She took a deep breath. “That being said, if you want to be with Arthur, you need to talk to him. Work it out with him. Tell him how you feel, how you genuinely feel. Just remember that he’s very, very afraid and that he has every right to be. If he says no, don’t hold it against him.”

Ford thought this over for a moment, before deciding that he felt absolutely terrible. He knew it wasn’t his fault he didn’t understand, but he hated that Arthur felt that way, that anyone felt that way, just for being with someone with similar genitalia. He wondered if he’d ever get to discuss the topic with Arthur, if Arthur would ever forgive him for… well, Ford still didn’t quite understand what he’d done wrong, but he figured he’d get to that when he got to it.

“Well,” the woman said, interrupting his thoughts, “if you don’t mind, I’m going to leave and hopefully get myself off at home.” She had begun to slip the rest of her clothes back on. “Thanks for the entertainment." She paused while sliding her pants on, biting her lip, looking rather conflicted. She looked up at Ford, tucking an errant strand of hair back under her headscarf, and casually, gently, said, "Oh, by the way, you got roofied the other night. If your drink tastes salty, tell the bartender immediately.” Ford looked up and noticed her watching him carefully, sadly. “Also, you might want to go to the doctor. Make sure you’re okay physically.”

“There was a condom,” Ford said immediately. Not that it would matter, he couldn’t get STDs from humans anyway, but he couldn't exactly tell her that. “So no worries about… that.”

“Okay, but they would need to check for, you know…” the woman made an awkward gesture. “Damage. Injury. The like.”

Ford realized what she meant and winced. He wanted very badly to move on from that subject. “Do you want me to, uhm…” said Ford, sitting up. “Do you want me to get you off?”

The woman shook her head with a laugh. “That’s alright, you don’t need to be doing that right now.” She finished putting her clothes on and grabbed her purse, straightening out her headscarf (which she told Ford was called a hijab). 

"I don't think I ever caught your name," Ford said sheepishly, sadly.

The woman smiled at him. "It's Tricia, sweetie. Tricia." She walked over to Ford and squatted down next to him, handing him his clothing. “Take care, Ford,” she said gently, dropping a kiss on his cheek. “Good luck with Arthur.” Then she was sauntering away, down the fire escape and off into the night.

Ford wished that, at that moment, he had put his pants on and rushed to Arthur’s house to talk to him, or to his apartment to rest and process what had just happened. If he had, he wouldn’t have been in the stupid car with Arthur pouring his hearts out to him in the first place.

Instead, Ford went back to the party, found a group of people doing cocaine, and joined in.

He wasn’t sure exactly what it was; if him taking too much coke had caused it, or if perhaps his body was allergic to the substance, but he wound up on a train early the next morning, still high, heading back to his apartment. His head was reeling and he wasn’t fully conscious. He had arrived at the apartment a little before Mimi’s opening time, walking through the front door babbling nonsense. Mimi had wrangled him up into his room and called Arthur immediately, and--

“And you know the rest,” Ford finished with a sniff, wiping sweaty palms on his trousers nervously. Arthur had pulled the car over some time ago so he could focus his attention fully on Ford. Ford stared out the window at the empty field beside the car; he thought he could see Arthur’s house from here, not far away at all.

“Okay, Ford,” Arthur said finally. He started the car back up. Ford looked to him in confusion, waiting for him to say something more, but Arthur bit his lip and stayed quiet.

The car puttered off down the road, and as Arthur took a left turn, he realized that it had been Arthur’s house he was looking at and that they were nearly there.

“Ford,” Arthur began, and Ford ceased breathing. “Thank you for telling me, Ford,” he said quietly. “I’m terribly sorry I ran out that one time, I just--”

“I understand,” Ford said, and though he didn’t quite, he figured he could try.

Arthur parked the car in the driveway and turned the engine off. He sat back in his seat with an exhausted sigh, hand resting gently on the gearshift.

Ford reached out and took his hand. Arthur turned to look at him, fingers drumming nervously against his thigh.

"It's just the two of us here, Arthur," Ford said, rubbing the back of Arthur's hand with his thumb. "It's safe."

At those words, the tension melted from Arthur's posture. He let out a long breath, hanging his head, biting his lip, before bringing his and Ford's intertwined hands to his lips. He let his lips just barely brush Ford's knuckles, looking at Ford through his lashes as he did so. Ford sucked in a sharp breath, following Arthur's lips with his eyes as Arthur pulled away.

Ford wasn't sure who made the first move, but regardless, he and Arthur were kissing, one of Arthur's hands cupping Ford's cheek, one of Ford's rested on Arthur's thigh. Ford stroked gently at the inseam of Arthur's slacks, with enough pressure to be suggestive, but not enough, hopefully, to overwhelm Arthur. He was rewarded with a lovely little sigh that sent tingles down his spine and blood down to somewhere else in his body. He rubbed a little more firmly, a little higher up, and Arthur's legs spread easily for him, an open invitation if Ford had ever seen any.

He would have been perfectly content to simply blow Arthur right there in the car, but Arthur pulled back slightly, pressing a sweet, chaste kiss to Ford's lips before sitting back and getting out of the car. Ford watched in confusion as Arthur made his way around the front of the car to Ford's side, opening the door for him. He offered Ford a hand, which he took, and helped Ford out of the car, giving him another chaste peck. "Come on," he said, "let's get to bed."

They stumbled into the house, towards Arthur's bedroom, knocking into every doorframe and piece of furniture as they went, both stubbornly refusing to stop kissing. Finally, Ford was pushing Arthur down onto the bed, then Ford was on his knees, savoring Arthur’s moans and infinitely grateful for his species’ lack of a gag reflex; then he was straddling Arthur and Arthur’s fingers were in him, poking and prodding about until they found a very, _very_ sensitive nook inside of him that was unique to Ford's alien biology and he came once grinding down into Arthur’s hand. Then he was under Arthur, keening as the Earthman pressed into him, pushing, stretching, burning so nicely, starting up a rhythm that would leave Ford sore for days; then Arthur was coming with a lovely cry of his name, the long column of his throat bared for Ford to bite and bruise; then--

***

“I think we both know you’re not the type to do that,” Ford said, watching his chance for that happiness with Arthur swirl down the drain and through the garbage disposal he had turned on.

Arthur stared at him, and Ford looked away, unable to bear to see the disappointment in his eyes.

“Ford,” Arthur whispered, like a prayer, “please.”

Ford stared out the window, something in his chest aching, stomach churning, rare tears threatening to 

“Let’s go for a few beers, huh? My treat.” Ford said, and there it was; a half-way olive branch, a chance to revert things back to the way they were before, stiff and tense and full of sexual and emotional tension that this time would for certain never be resolved.

“Okay,” said Arthur after a moment, restarting the car and heading off towards the pub.

Ford pretended not to notice him wiping his eyes on his sleeve.

***

Ford stayed at Arthur's house for about a month after the cocaine incident, sleeping on his couch, walking his dog (he had gotten the dog, Ford learned, after their fight. Arthur wouldn't tell him much more than that), helped him cook. They still went out to the bar together, still got smashed and stumbled over each other on the way home. And, on occasion, Ford still caught Arthur staring at him with longing in his eyes.

Ford moved back to his apartment over Mimi's shop, sheepishly carrying a cardboard box with the clothes he took to Arthur's, and his satchel, full of everything else he always carried. Arthur dropped him off, but did not get out of the car to send him off, just waved awkwardly and drove away without any more than a cursory, "Goodbye, Ford." Something sharp stabbed at Ford's chest and his head began to ache. He ignored it.

"Hello, Ford," Mimi said, opening the door and letting him in with a smile. She peered over his shoulder, watching Arthur drive off. "That was rude of him. Nevermind, though. How are you, dearie?"

"Hullo, Mimi!" Ford said chipperly, then promptly burst into tears.

"Oh, love," said Mimi, taking his cardboard box from him and setting it on a table. She took him by the arm, gently, and guided him to a comfortable chair in the corner. "Let's get you some tea."

"I just don't understand," Ford croaked moments later, a steaming mug of tea clasped between his palms, Mimi sat across from him, listening intently. "It's usually easy for me to... to get over people, to get over whatever happens to me, but..." he took a sip of tea, "I don't know why this time is different." Ford could hear the desperation dripping from his words, could smell it coming off him in waves. He was drowning in desperation, treading frantically to keep his head above the odorous waves and failing miserably. He stared into Mimi's eyes. They were blue, and, more importantly, the only thing he could focus on. He stared at them, clung to them like a life vest, hoping that maybe they'd be able to pull him up, pull him out of his sea of shame and desperation and so many other things he couldn't name. "I don't know why _he's_ different."

Mimi sucked in a deep breath, looking at Ford sadly, letting out a heavy sigh. "Well, dear," she said, "It's because you love him."

Ford blinked at her. He blinked again. Hell, why not, he thought, and blinked a third time.

"What does that mean?" he asked.

It was Mimi's turn to blink. "What do you mean, what does that mean?"

Ford shrugged. "Love," he said. "What do you mean by that?"

Mimi's mouth dropped open. "Oh, honey," she said simply. "He's your soulmate."

Ford was thrown back to his childhood, to the lessons in school, on finding your soulmate, your other half, the person you were meant to be with for eternity. He remembered everyone finding theirs as teenagers, then again as adults. He remembered his father finding several different soulmates, rotating them out, each one younger and meaner than the previous. He remembered his mother, when he was very little and she was still alive, whispering to him sweet stories about a feeling that couldn't be put into words, the feeling of finding someone meant to go with you, to support you, to _love_ you.

Ford was now blinking rapidly. "Holy shit," he said, "I love him."

The world continued spinning.

Ford drank some more tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me to my lonely gay brain: it fits Ford's character and kinda foreshadows the rest of the plot to have them rush into physical intimacy instead of talking their shit out in Ford's imagination of what could be if he weren't a terrible dumbass
> 
> my brain: bbwut whhhe,hut iff,,., thwey h-hweld h-h-hwands?.,?
> 
> OKAY IT HAPPENED THE "L" WORD WAS USED WE DID IT Y'ALL also the Beatles song Arthur is humming is "Here, There, and Everywhere", which is so sweet i cry listening to it, highly recommended if you haven't heard it before.
> 
> wow let's celebrate pride month with my gay ass writing a whole paragraph about a pretty lady ("is that Trillian?" you may be wondering. the answer is: maybe. maybe not. we'll see (: ) and only giving my main characters like two words of physical descriptiooooonnnnn whoooooo DON'T BE DISCOURAGED BY THE SAD i will hopefully have happier chapters coming out soon!
> 
> comments and kudos are greatly appreciated! I try to respond to all comments ASAP!! happy pride again lovies, stay safe, stay hydrated, stay gay!!!! (unless you're straight then just keep doin you hun) <333333


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